


Unique Position

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Career Change, Drinking & Talking, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:26:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Andy Sachs's career went through several changes during the past few years. Miranda Priestly's recommendation has always been a help, as has the woman herself.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psiten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psiten/gifts).



> Dear psiten!  
> I picked up your prompts as a deadline pinch-hit, and I hope you like what I've done with them. I wanted to warn for politics just in case (but they aren't recent and nobody has Opinions.) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Credit where credit is due: This wouldn't be half as good (or half as finished!) if it wasn't for Elf, who was a tremendous help. Thank you very much!

Miranda’s recommendation letter opened doors Andy hadn't known existed.

On one hand, that was completely predictable, as Andy had never seen much of editors or publishers before she started her internship at Runway, and had been thrown into the deep end as Miranda’s assistant. On the other, well, Andy _had_ worked for Miranda, for almost a year, even. She had met so many people in publishing and fashion, and it was intimidating to know that had been just the tip of the iceberg.

Andy wasn’t easily daunted, though. Miranda’s glowing recommendation helped her get a freelance job by the Washington Post for overseas correspondence; it had helped her get a foothold in the journalistic community.

It would help her in this, too.

"Miranda Priestly," the government official interviewing Andy said, in an appreciative yet slightly malicious drawl as if he was going to enjoy the gossip she would impart. "That must have been hard, to work for such a shrew."

Andy Sachs was sitting straight in front of him, hands slightly folded but open, her legs folded under her chair. She smiled. "It was the best job I ever had."

The functionary laughed like she made the cleverest of jokes. "Better than freelance war correspondence to the Post?"

"Certainly more dangerous." She said it jokingly, but truly, it felt like there were almost as many landmines in a multi-billion industry like fashion, where they sold you dreams, as there had been in Lebanon during the 2005 assassinations. Just as many prominent people were killed, maybe not quite so permanently, but that left them to come back for revenge.

He laughed with her, and then added, "All joking aside, one always hears such awful stories. She’s a very demanding boss. Is it true that when you work with her you have to come whenever she calls, no matter where you are?"

"Miranda never demanded more from us than she was willing to give herself," Andy said politely. That was also a thing she had learned with Miranda. "The only exception was her kids. Miranda made us move heaven and earth for her kids."

The government official gave her a look of disbelief, but didn’t continue the topic.

___

The entrance to the bar in the East Village of New York City was hidden behind an old phone booth inside Crif Dogs. Miranda made her take the handset — Andy rolled her eyes but complied, and a hostess opened the back door to let them through. Miranda’s eyes glanced over the smug-fitting dress, and probably noticed a flaw in coordination, but she refrained from commenting.

When they were seated, and had picked out their libations in celebration of the goddess of fashion, Miranda crossed her ankles, leaned back and said, "So? Do I need to ruin someone’s life?"

Andy laughed — she could laugh about it, now. "No, that’s not necessary," she said cheerfully, more cheerfully than when she had turned down the offer of Assistant Press Secretary to the White House, a unique position that would probably only drop by once in a lifetime.

She had been with the Washington Post for almost longer than Runway, still not terribly long for most professions — but she had felt bored at the Post for some time now, and felt it was time to move on.

The position for Assistant to the Press Secretary had fallen into her lap because of Miranda. Someone had heard of her reputation of dealing with difficult requests, both in Andy’s rocket-like ascension in the Washington Post’s office and her past as Miranda’s go-to girl, and urged her to apply.

"The position is terrible, and I would have quit after three months," Andy explained.

"Haven’t I told you very often that some opportunities are too good to miss?"

"This wasn’t one of them," Andy said confidently. "A government job. Think about how stale I would look in a suit. And I would have to wear them, conservatively, day after day."

Miranda shuddered.

Andy grinned, and sipped her cocktail. "Not even the public holidays would be worth that."

"Someday," Miranda said, and looked far away, "there is going to be a fashion icon sitting behind that desk in the White House. And you could have paved the way."

Andy snorted unladylike into her glass. "I think my progressive political opinions would have set that day further into the future. And they did hire a woman, so you can look forward to press releases with a staid business suit, instead of the pantsuit. God, the capital should go a bit with the times."

"Who did they hire?" Miranda asked curiously.

"Dana Perino," Andy said without inflection.

Miranda paused with the cocktail glass halfway to her mouth. "The blonde CBS waste of space?" she asked incredulously.

"So you did look up my competitors!"

"She hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together! How did they decide on her?" Miranda asked disbelieving.

"I turned down the job first," Andy said.

"Well." Miranda looked at her, a strange glint in her eyes. "It wouldn’t have fit you, parroting other people’s words to placate the masses. Where will you go next? Not freelancing as a war correspondent again, I hope. You look terrible in fatigues."

"Everyone looks terrible in fatigues."

Miranda raised her glass as a salute.

"I could have managed to blend in, I guess," Andy said quietly and watched as Miranda leaned closer to catch her words. Being in Miranda’s presence like this, on friendly terms, was something she would never have imagined when working for her. "I never managed to at Runway."

"Of course not; you aren’t meant to blend in, Andrea. You were always meant to stand out."

"I hate how you say that name."

Miranda rolled her eyes, "I’m not going to call you by that plebeian diminutive you continue to use. It misrepresents you entirely."

"I’m hoping to return to New York," Andy confessed. "I heard through the grapevine that Vogue was looking for a new Assistant Editor."

Miranda’s jaw dropped open. "You’ve never edited a single page in your life!" she said, full of indignation.

"How hard can it be?" Andy asked provocatively, and wisely didn’t mention her position as assistant editor at the other publication she worked at. "After all, it’s something you did."

Miranda looked at her, one heartbeat, then two — and then she laughed, her hand held delicately in front of her mouth. "Touché," she said. After another small pause she asked, "Are you seriously considering going back into fashion?"

Andy smiled sardonically, "I’m sure you noticed my Ferragamo’s from four seasons ago."

"It’s very you," Miranda replied with surprising honesty. "And you disliked the fashion world so very much."

Andy stared into her, in the meantime empty, glass, and remembered the younger Andy, the one that thought she could change the world. She had not lost that hope, that belief that there would be a better tomorrow — but she had also learned that you could change the world from everywhere, in small bits, that nevertheless could be felt by lots of people.

"I didn’t like myself, I think," Andy said. She had promised to never ever cry before Miranda, but now she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She was going to blame it on the alcohol, or maybe the intense psychological relief after she refused the job.

Miranda stared at her, now openly crying, then waived at the bartender for the bill. "Let’s get out of here before someone from page 6 gets wind of this," she said.

Miranda dragged her out of the bar, and into Ray’s limousine, and then somehow, into her hotel room.

"I wish I could blacklist the whole world for you," she heard Miranda say.

___

The next morning, there was a note on the bedside table in Miranda’s loopiest handwriting. It said, "They would be the biggest idiots not to take you. If you steal any of my designers from me, I will cut you until you bleed. Also, there’s an assistant editor position open at the Times if you want it. Send your CV."

Life sometimes gave you perspective. And reporting on war crimes in Lebanon had given Andy hers. She was neither the naive college graduate nor the still kind-of-naive assistant to a brilliant woman, a brilliant woman who could never just be kind.

Now, she was able to stand on her own. She was not sure what to do next but she knew already: It was going to be brilliant.

**Author's Note:**

> The bar Miranda and Andy meet at, is real and called PDT. You need reservations to go there, the entrance through the phone booth is real, and drinks are very expensive.


End file.
